Things go missing when you live in a house with people. Things get misplaced, moved around, stashed away and forgotten about. Things fall in the cracks between the sofa cushions and behind bookcases. Sometimes they are little things that have not even been missed until they are found. Other times they are bigger things, more important in the daily rituals of life and their absence becomes an inconvenience.
Occasionally it's hard to tell what is missing. The rice goes faster than you thought it should or the milk is consumed at an impossible rate. You may have small ideas about what is happening in these cases, but it's not nice to think so and the suspicions get pushed to the back of mind where they mingle with doubt and no proof and remain an uncertainty.
Too many hands. It's a saying I employ often when searching for my missing things. Too many little kid hands that like to pick up small objects and fiddle with them absentmindedly while doing something else. Too many hands sharing the same electronics and chargers and forgetting to return them to a communal place. Too many hands cleaning and moving and touching objects that might appear to be out of use or unimportant.
It's part of learning to live in a full house, or a halfway full house or even just with one other. It's one of those small perks of living alone- everything is exactly where you put it the night before. Or the week before.
Ex-pats in Kinshasa tend to have cleaning help, however, so even living alone doesn't ensure you will find things where you left them. We have someone who comes in everyday to clean up and wash clothes, though I have tried many times to help her find other work. We simply don't need someone everyday. And I am intensely private. I have not quite found a way to feel comfortable going about my daily affairs, or even worse, sitting doing nothing but breathing in the fresh jungle air, while someone cleans around me. Perhaps it is due to the fact that I hate cleaning around people who are enjoying their leisure time. I want them to get up and help me so we can finish faster and we can all relax. Sometimes I think having household help is something you need to grow up with in order to be truly comfortable with. Sometimes I think it is just me.
But then I talk to friends and colleagues and hear that they also have odd feeling moments. One friend shared with me a moment when she was sitting down to eat a taco lunch. A meal that requires small mounds of food from different dishes to be piled high upon the plate. A meal that could look lavish to someone struggling to feed their family every night. And that's where the real discomfort comes in. Conducting a rich and bountiful life in front of someone who just doesn't have.
I have been in this service position most of my life, working in restaurants, watching weddings and parties and gala affairs from the sidelines. In a job, you tend to understand the boundaries and stick to them. You know exactly what your role is and it is easy enough to maneuver about within it, marveling at the extravaganza of those you are serving.
But when it is brought into the home, it seems ever more personal. I tend to have a much harder time with the boundaries when I am on the other side. A lot of it also has to do with African cultures and the strict roles of age, gender, and economic status that command respect. I am constantly wavering between my ideas and crossing the boundaries and not enforcing the rules based on my American ideals and half-formed thoughts about how things should be.
It just leads to trouble. The rules are in place to ensure that everyone is on the same page. If I try working from my American page, it doesn't seem to translate well. I have been learning this lesson for awhile now and yet, still can't quite absorb it. I see how it goes wrong, but I don't have the mannerisms to work on that other field, even if I am slowly coming to appreciate it.
It's the one where the youth do whatever their elders ask, even if elder only means a few years. And the employee completes all the required tasks. Perhaps I am just not a good employer. I hate asking for "extra" things and constantly feel bad if I think I am creating too much work (while at the same time realizing that there is barely enough work in my house to employ someone for an entire day, every day. Oh, I am complicated.)
Because of my complications, I have been with the same woman for 5 years. I have gone to her house, met her family and bought them extra food occasionally. I give her all of the clothes the kids have outgrown and all of the things I no longer wear. I've made small loans and gifts of money even when it was a hardship for my family. It's never really enough because lifting someone out of poverty is no easy task. But I have kept her employed, at times employed her sister and in general tried to make life a little less stressful.
The fact is, I am not really one of those ex-pats that lives an easy carefree life full of travel to exotic places and lavish luxuries (well, compared to the normal Westerner. I understand my life is probably lavish to the average Congolese houseworker.)
It's a distortion which can never truly be understood. Even if my cupboards are frequently bare and nothing I own here is really mine (a perk of working for an international school, all the basics are provided from housing to furniture to car rental.) She will never see the struggles I feel. She cannot see.
All that to say, things are missing and this time I can't quite push it back to the dusty corner of doubt and uncertainty. I know where they've gone. What I don't know is what to do about it.
There is the nagging thought that, well, we weren't using that, or I would have given it to her anyway, or even more preposterous, Mobutu himself proclaimed it was ok to take a little bit from those who have if you happen to be one of those who have not.
These all seem like excuses to me when I really want to demand complete honesty and total trust. Not to mention the feelings of hurt and betrayal, the sense of loss of respect that comes when someone has taken from you.
I know that in any other house, immediate dismissal would be the response. But we have spent five years together. Five years erasing the boundaries that are supposed to prevent this from happening. And there is always the family to consider. Small children who depend on me paying someone to come in and do things for me that I am entirely capable of doing for myself.
Except the one thing I seem to have the most trouble doing- maintaining the boundaries and keeping things from going missing.
Showing posts with label stealing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stealing. Show all posts
23.7.13
27.9.09
Madame Mondele
I returned minus one pair of scissors. I am trying to figure out if I should be grateful or indignant. I did begin with 12. It could easily have appeared to the untrained eye that I had plenty to spare. I am forever battling this concept of poverty versus prosperity.
It actually began when I dropped Mohamed off at a birthday party. A new restaurant has opened in Kintambo which has left everyone abuzz. Birthday parties themselves have a tendancy to leave me feeling overwhelmed and out of my social sphere. It is then that I realize Mohamed's friends are children of diplomats and ambassadors. The luxuries I see upon dropping him off make my radiant surroundings seem dreary in comparison. The latest party was being held at the aforementioned new hotspot in town. The bright, colorful building boasted sparkling glass doors and shiny tile hallways. One entire wall was covered with a mixture of paintings and three dimensional art complete with African masks and a cowrie shell design. Several flights up we were presented with a very Western style cafe. Burly men in black t-shirts and nylon caps were waiting to greet us. The dining area was full of tables and patrons enjoying an early lunch. A private party room off to the side enclosed a childrens climbing and play area. As I'd heard a salad and pita sandwich had run one couple something in the neighborhood of $30, I could not really comprehend the price of this party- 20 children for sandwiches, fries and a drink.......
Everything I do here puts me in the land of the surreal. At one time in my not too distant past, I was standing in a cold kitchen accepting bags filled with staples from a dear friend who was aware of my dire situation. No money for nutriants or warmth. My landlord was offering to loan me money so I could put a bit of oil in the tank during a long and particularly cold winter. I couldn't see past the next meal. But here I am pulling into a parking lot filled with sleek, shiny SUV's in polished blacks and grays. I dropped my child off at a birthday party that probably cost more than I spend on a month of groceries. As I pulled around to the back exit, the gate opened to reveal a teeming mass of children clothed in dusty rags waving sticks, empty hands and cheerful smiles in my direction as I, the imposter, deftly drove the car over piles of paper scraps and around craters that littered this back alley. When I returned a few hours later, the children were gone- disappearing with the rain- but I could still see them, and I could still feel their presence along the cramped and littered lane.
Whle Mohamed was whooping it up with his friends, Nabih and I headed for ACDF. This day I had brought their drawings, of which I have been collecting for unknown reasons, and thought we could work together on a forest collage. I was also prepared with their salt sculptures and paints from the previous week in case it seemed possible to organize and manage two different activities at once. I can never be sure how many kids will be there and which ones exactly. It makes a continuing project challenging at best.
After arriving, I quickly decided to scrap the painting plans and work solely on the collage. I taped up some sheets of large green paper which were a sharp and welcome contrast to the gray, dingy walls. The kids seemed to get the idea pretty quickly and began easily cutting out their past drawings. Many were also anxious to begin new drawings which were also cut out and pasted. It was a hive of busy concentration. Several children quickly became designated the 'gluers' and were in charge of assembling the collage on the wall. Less clear were my directions, suggestions and samples of how to construct trees, grass and water. We managed to get a few tree-like structures around the edges and a square of water somewhere in the middle to accomodate a swimming rhinocerous whose legs were accidently cut off by an overly enthusiastic snipper.
In their zeal, however, things began to become fantastic. Horses were flying in the sky only inches away from army helicopters. Men walked effortlessly along the jungle treetops and jeeps supported elephants without caving in. I laughed as I questioned in my broken French, "Es'que ca vole?"
They laughed right back assuring me it was so, animals and houses alike could fly.
I managed a shift when one boy proudly showed me his drawing of one the new washers. Yes, it was definately reminiscent of the sporty machines sitting in the corner. A few moments later I noticed him grandly applying glue and tacking his portrait to the uppermost corner of our second jungle scene.
"Do they really have that in the forest?" I inquired. I really could not tell if they were getting the concept of creating a jungle collage or if they were expressing perspective in a different way. I am well acquainted with the village drawings that are multilayered, descending down the page, house upon house upon garden until a river runs along the bottom. It is akin to the Oriental design using a vertical, rather than horizontal, perspective.
Yet again I was met with laughter and a nod.
"C'est vrai?! Un machine, dans le foret?" Really?! A machine in the forest? I felt determined to get to the heart of the confusion. But as he turned to look at me and assure me, completely and truly with every ounce of his being that YES! there were washing machines in the forest, the trees finally gave way and I saw everything for what it was. His eyes were shining and he patted the corners of his creation firmly to the wall. His work was on display for all to see. THAT was greater than any juxtaposition of brown and green construction paper I was hoping would be assembled into an arrangement of tree and leaf like shapes. There was a use for their carefully drawn designs of the past and it was simply to be hung, admired and commented upon.
As I was realizing this, I looked over to the benches in the back of the room. A few mintues after arrival, a storm appeared in the sky forcing the older teens and visitors to move inside. They sat on the benches, talking or just looking, not having much to do. Some took up the task of coloring or cutting, others just chided those who were involved. There is an art to this patient waiting here in Africa. I've seen it many places as well as repeated in the theater. African dramas are often comprised of social scenes that involve sitting and talking. Its true to life. But it also requires a constant readjustment of my perspective.
Comparitively, drawing a realistic model and hanging it on the wall turns the piece into a focal point, a source of discussion, admiration and even some good natured joshing. Recognition and validation by one's peers secured. (I am sensing a pattern here. I just need to remember that I see it and that it is of value.)
This day there was more of a teaching component to the activites. I felt a distinct eye on me as the mothers of prospective recipients watched from their new, inside seats. We were now the entertainment. And I do have a role to fill on these Saturday's. While I continue to decipher what it means to me personally, the children have no doubt. "Madame, madame.." they call as I hand out supplies. They want refills, pencil sharpeners, more markers, markers that work,...etc. Occasionally, I feel they are too demanding and I try, in Lingala, to get them to say please. "Soko olingi," I prompt. Although I've learned a few useful phrases, their reaction never differs. They smile and laugh as general comments circulate the room. I can never be sure if they take me seriously. And with the extended audience, the chorus of "Madame" was ever growing, song like and clearly the subject of some discussion. We will have to work on my name and I on theirs.
There are moments of concentration and focus interspersed with chaos and confusion. Generally it is in the setting up and cleaning up that supplies tend to go missing. I have been aware of this and understand it is a risk of the trade. The lego building has remained on hiatus for this very reason. I imagine there is a bit of it that could be cured by relationship building. The more often I visit the center, the better we come to know one another, the more respect we might develop. But I am distinctly aware of a bridge I cannot cross. As I work there, I see myself through their eyes. I feel foreign and unknown to myself in this light. It makes the gaps between us seem all the more insurmountable. With my 12 pairs of scissors and 13 glue sticks, every week I show up with books and paper and crayons in bright pink pails. Just last week, I was badgered to rudeness by a girl who wanted one of the pails and felt I should be obligated to give it to her.
I begin to lose my patience. I want them to make the connection that I am bringing these supplies and materials for their benefit and if they filch them piece by piece, there will be nothing left to bring. I want it to be an even exchange of gifts. If I bring the the entertainment, they can respond by sending me off with all of my original pieces. But it cannot really work this way. No matter how many times I come, there is always the chance that I won't show up. They are awaiting the day when I fly off to some other locale, leaving them once again to dusty, dreary Saturdays sans l'art, sans l'jouie. Until some other mondele shows up with grand ideas and hopeful plans. I am not sure if I can transcend this image of the wealthy white. I still carry memories of my own dark time, peering into empty kitchen cupboards and wondering how the children will eat. I know that, in comparison, it is not really the same. But I also know that, while I do not necessarily want to be their 'madame mondele,' I have not comitted to Kinshsasa. It is very likely I am waiting for a plane to whisk me off to some other locale.....
It actually began when I dropped Mohamed off at a birthday party. A new restaurant has opened in Kintambo which has left everyone abuzz. Birthday parties themselves have a tendancy to leave me feeling overwhelmed and out of my social sphere. It is then that I realize Mohamed's friends are children of diplomats and ambassadors. The luxuries I see upon dropping him off make my radiant surroundings seem dreary in comparison. The latest party was being held at the aforementioned new hotspot in town. The bright, colorful building boasted sparkling glass doors and shiny tile hallways. One entire wall was covered with a mixture of paintings and three dimensional art complete with African masks and a cowrie shell design. Several flights up we were presented with a very Western style cafe. Burly men in black t-shirts and nylon caps were waiting to greet us. The dining area was full of tables and patrons enjoying an early lunch. A private party room off to the side enclosed a childrens climbing and play area. As I'd heard a salad and pita sandwich had run one couple something in the neighborhood of $30, I could not really comprehend the price of this party- 20 children for sandwiches, fries and a drink.......
Everything I do here puts me in the land of the surreal. At one time in my not too distant past, I was standing in a cold kitchen accepting bags filled with staples from a dear friend who was aware of my dire situation. No money for nutriants or warmth. My landlord was offering to loan me money so I could put a bit of oil in the tank during a long and particularly cold winter. I couldn't see past the next meal. But here I am pulling into a parking lot filled with sleek, shiny SUV's in polished blacks and grays. I dropped my child off at a birthday party that probably cost more than I spend on a month of groceries. As I pulled around to the back exit, the gate opened to reveal a teeming mass of children clothed in dusty rags waving sticks, empty hands and cheerful smiles in my direction as I, the imposter, deftly drove the car over piles of paper scraps and around craters that littered this back alley. When I returned a few hours later, the children were gone- disappearing with the rain- but I could still see them, and I could still feel their presence along the cramped and littered lane.
Whle Mohamed was whooping it up with his friends, Nabih and I headed for ACDF. This day I had brought their drawings, of which I have been collecting for unknown reasons, and thought we could work together on a forest collage. I was also prepared with their salt sculptures and paints from the previous week in case it seemed possible to organize and manage two different activities at once. I can never be sure how many kids will be there and which ones exactly. It makes a continuing project challenging at best.
After arriving, I quickly decided to scrap the painting plans and work solely on the collage. I taped up some sheets of large green paper which were a sharp and welcome contrast to the gray, dingy walls. The kids seemed to get the idea pretty quickly and began easily cutting out their past drawings. Many were also anxious to begin new drawings which were also cut out and pasted. It was a hive of busy concentration. Several children quickly became designated the 'gluers' and were in charge of assembling the collage on the wall. Less clear were my directions, suggestions and samples of how to construct trees, grass and water. We managed to get a few tree-like structures around the edges and a square of water somewhere in the middle to accomodate a swimming rhinocerous whose legs were accidently cut off by an overly enthusiastic snipper.
In their zeal, however, things began to become fantastic. Horses were flying in the sky only inches away from army helicopters. Men walked effortlessly along the jungle treetops and jeeps supported elephants without caving in. I laughed as I questioned in my broken French, "Es'que ca vole?"
They laughed right back assuring me it was so, animals and houses alike could fly.
I managed a shift when one boy proudly showed me his drawing of one the new washers. Yes, it was definately reminiscent of the sporty machines sitting in the corner. A few moments later I noticed him grandly applying glue and tacking his portrait to the uppermost corner of our second jungle scene.
"Do they really have that in the forest?" I inquired. I really could not tell if they were getting the concept of creating a jungle collage or if they were expressing perspective in a different way. I am well acquainted with the village drawings that are multilayered, descending down the page, house upon house upon garden until a river runs along the bottom. It is akin to the Oriental design using a vertical, rather than horizontal, perspective.
Yet again I was met with laughter and a nod.
"C'est vrai?! Un machine, dans le foret?" Really?! A machine in the forest? I felt determined to get to the heart of the confusion. But as he turned to look at me and assure me, completely and truly with every ounce of his being that YES! there were washing machines in the forest, the trees finally gave way and I saw everything for what it was. His eyes were shining and he patted the corners of his creation firmly to the wall. His work was on display for all to see. THAT was greater than any juxtaposition of brown and green construction paper I was hoping would be assembled into an arrangement of tree and leaf like shapes. There was a use for their carefully drawn designs of the past and it was simply to be hung, admired and commented upon.
As I was realizing this, I looked over to the benches in the back of the room. A few mintues after arrival, a storm appeared in the sky forcing the older teens and visitors to move inside. They sat on the benches, talking or just looking, not having much to do. Some took up the task of coloring or cutting, others just chided those who were involved. There is an art to this patient waiting here in Africa. I've seen it many places as well as repeated in the theater. African dramas are often comprised of social scenes that involve sitting and talking. Its true to life. But it also requires a constant readjustment of my perspective.
Comparitively, drawing a realistic model and hanging it on the wall turns the piece into a focal point, a source of discussion, admiration and even some good natured joshing. Recognition and validation by one's peers secured. (I am sensing a pattern here. I just need to remember that I see it and that it is of value.)
This day there was more of a teaching component to the activites. I felt a distinct eye on me as the mothers of prospective recipients watched from their new, inside seats. We were now the entertainment. And I do have a role to fill on these Saturday's. While I continue to decipher what it means to me personally, the children have no doubt. "Madame, madame.." they call as I hand out supplies. They want refills, pencil sharpeners, more markers, markers that work,...etc. Occasionally, I feel they are too demanding and I try, in Lingala, to get them to say please. "Soko olingi," I prompt. Although I've learned a few useful phrases, their reaction never differs. They smile and laugh as general comments circulate the room. I can never be sure if they take me seriously. And with the extended audience, the chorus of "Madame" was ever growing, song like and clearly the subject of some discussion. We will have to work on my name and I on theirs.
There are moments of concentration and focus interspersed with chaos and confusion. Generally it is in the setting up and cleaning up that supplies tend to go missing. I have been aware of this and understand it is a risk of the trade. The lego building has remained on hiatus for this very reason. I imagine there is a bit of it that could be cured by relationship building. The more often I visit the center, the better we come to know one another, the more respect we might develop. But I am distinctly aware of a bridge I cannot cross. As I work there, I see myself through their eyes. I feel foreign and unknown to myself in this light. It makes the gaps between us seem all the more insurmountable. With my 12 pairs of scissors and 13 glue sticks, every week I show up with books and paper and crayons in bright pink pails. Just last week, I was badgered to rudeness by a girl who wanted one of the pails and felt I should be obligated to give it to her.
I begin to lose my patience. I want them to make the connection that I am bringing these supplies and materials for their benefit and if they filch them piece by piece, there will be nothing left to bring. I want it to be an even exchange of gifts. If I bring the the entertainment, they can respond by sending me off with all of my original pieces. But it cannot really work this way. No matter how many times I come, there is always the chance that I won't show up. They are awaiting the day when I fly off to some other locale, leaving them once again to dusty, dreary Saturdays sans l'art, sans l'jouie. Until some other mondele shows up with grand ideas and hopeful plans. I am not sure if I can transcend this image of the wealthy white. I still carry memories of my own dark time, peering into empty kitchen cupboards and wondering how the children will eat. I know that, in comparison, it is not really the same. But I also know that, while I do not necessarily want to be their 'madame mondele,' I have not comitted to Kinshsasa. It is very likely I am waiting for a plane to whisk me off to some other locale.....
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